


carry the bones of your home

by Vail



Series: like dust, i'll rise [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Canonical Character Death, City Elf Culture and Customs, City Elf Origin, Elven Alienages, Family Dynamics, Gen, Growing Up, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-29
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2019-06-17 22:49:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15471834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vail/pseuds/Vail
Summary: She was angry. She was furious, with herself, with her father, with everyone - they all insisted there was nothing to be done, accepted Adaia’s loss, told one another to move on. Mihra knew her mother’s fate was becoming the next warning tale for Alienage children.'Don’t fight back, don’t go looking for trouble, or you’ll end up like Adaia Tabris.'--[A prologue origin story for my city elf, placed pre-canon events.]





	carry the bones of your home

**Author's Note:**

> And so it begins... I have been sitting on the draft of Mihra's entire story, cover pre-canon all the way to the end of the Origins for over a year but could never quite finish it, so I ended up splitting it down into smaller chunks/arcs to start posting. This section is more or less canon-adjacent, but canon divergences will be introduced in the next part of the series, which should be up in a week or two! 
> 
> Huge thanks to Vi (@thronebreaker) for being an incredible beta and calling me out for using too many hyphens.

Mihra was alone at home, trying to hem the brown trousers that Soris had outgrown so she could wear them herself, when someone began pounding on the front door so hard that she could hear the wood creak beneath the blows.

“Cyrion! Cy, open the door!”

“Coming!” She called back. Mihra dropped her sewing (it wasn’t like she enjoyed it), and scrambled to her feet, making for the door. She lifted the bar lock and moved to push it open before remembering her father’s constant warnings. Papa had finally stopped asking Shianni and Soris to babysit her, but she still wasn’t supposed to open the door to strangers. Instead, she cracked it open just wide enough to peek out.

But Alarith wasn’t _really_ a stranger, so she opened the door wider.

“Oh - Mihra,” he said, looking sheepish. He was out of breath, as if he had just come running across the alienage from his store to her home, but the corners of his mouth still tilted up into a strained smile. “Sorry, I hate to come bother your family at dinner time, but there’s urgent news. Where’s your father?”

“We’re not eating yet, s’okay,” she shrugged. “My parents haven’t come home yet, they’re late. What’s wrong?”

Alarith immediately looked nervous. “Uh - nothing, I mean, I didn’t say anything was _wrong_ -“

She crossed her arms and scowled. “I’m twelve, not a _baby_ . You wouldn’t come knocking and yelling if your _urgent_ news wasn’t bad. What’s going on?”

He hesitated, but then slowly clapped a hand on her shoulder. “Adaia - your mother got caught by Harwen Raleigh’s men. They’ve arrested her.”

Mihra felt a cold, crawling sensation creep down her back and she swayed a little on her feet, feeling abruptly dizzy. Harwen Raleigh was a name that every elf in the Alienage knew, down to the smallest child. They were _all_ told to avoid him or any of the soldiers wearing the uniform of his troops, to never beg for coin or food from them, or play where they could see. Raleigh was a cruel man, a war criminal that even King Maric had disavowed, but after the King’s death, Arl Urien had hired him and his men to guard the Arl’s estate. More often, they roamed wild through the streets of Denerim and did whatever they liked...especially to elves.

Alarith’s hand on her shoulder squeezed gently as he steadied her. She could hear him still speaking, but it sounded - distant, as if he wasn’t right in front of her. “I don’t know on what charges, he probably made them up. Word spread fast, but I didn’t know if Cyrion had heard yet.”

Mihra dug her nails into her palm and  forced herself to speak, hating how her voice trembled. “That’s - that’s pretty bad, right? I….we’ve all heard what Raleigh’s like.” She twisted her hands, trying to stay calm. “Alright. Okay, so - so what do we do?”

He looked down at her, his eyes kind but confused. “Do? We just…we pray that he lets her out quick and she’s home by the end of the week, if Andraste permits.” He glanced away and turned his gaze into the distance. “Perhaps your father can ask that Chantry sister that comes by if she can put in a good word.”

 _So we do nothing?_ Mihra wanted to say, but she was distracted by her father turning the corner down the street and calling her name.

“Mihra!”

“Papa!” she yelled back, and ran up to tackle him with a hug. “Alarith just told me -“

“About your mother? Yes. It’s - I saw her, that’s why I was late, I’m sorry Mihra, you must have been so worried,” he said, smoothing her hair down and holding her tight. His arms were trembling.

“Cyrion,” Alarith said quietly, watching them. “How bad do you think it is?”  

“I don’t know,” her father sounded weary. “It doesn’t look good though. I always see Raleigh bringing in prisoners on that wagon, through the kitchen window, and when I saw Adaia…” Mihra was still so close that she could feel him swallow hard, hear his heart beating frantically. “I convinced the chef to let me take the prisoners’ meals today. They have her in one of the cells on the lowest level, where Raleigh does his worst. He doesn’t have any real reason to hold her, but she struck one of his men for-“ He paused, seemed to remember that Mihra was still there, and continued with, “Well, you know. So the man had her cuffed, and Raleigh probably thinks nobody will - miss her,” he choked out the last two words

“She’s going to be alright though? I mean. She’s going to get out?” Mihra asked, her voice small. Her mother was beautiful and strong, and if elves weren’t forbidden from carrying weapons, she _knew_ Adaia could have beaten the men that captured her into the ground. “Mama’s been through worse, that’s what she always says, right Papa? It might be bad but she’s going to come home.”

Cyrion pressed a kiss to the top of Mihra’s head and said, his voice hoarse, “Of course, sweetheart. She’ll come home as soon as she can.”

That night, Cyrion let Mihra curl up in the empty space on her parent’s bed even though she hadn’t slept with them in years. In the darkness, moonlight trickling in through the hole in their roof, she could hear her father muttering, “Maker damn him. Maker damn them all.”

 

* * *

 

Weeks passed without any word of Adaia’s release.

“Every time I go see her, she looks worse,” Cyrion said. Mihra wasn’t supposed to be listening - she wasn’t even supposed to be home, she’d told her father that she was going to go out and play with Shianni, but she had left her knit cap behind and come back for it. Now, she pressed herself against the thin wooden wall that separated her room from the kitchen where Cyrion was sitting, head in hands, with Alarith and Valendrian.

“Did you ask that woman from the Chantry, _hahren_?”

“I did,” the elderly elf said sadly. “Sister Boann told me she went to the Arl’s castle to ask after Adaia and Raleigh denied that there was any elf locked up at all. We have no way of proving she’s in the dungeons, not without them realizing that her husband works in the kitchens and has been seeing her.”

“He doesn’t intend to let her free at all,” her father said, and slammed his fist on the table. “She’s got lashes all down her back, and blisters across her wrists and ankles from the chains. They’re open wounds. Those dungeons are _filthy_ , they’re not even having them cleaned or bandaged. And I’m only given food to bring down to that level every three days, so I know she’s not getting enough to eat either.” He made a broken sound, almost like a sob, and Mihra swallowed, digging her nails deep into her thigh. She’d never heard her father cry.

“What am I going to tell Mihra?”

There was a long silence, with all three of the men sitting around the table unwilling to break it. Finally, Alarth spoke up. “You keep her safe. Adaia...was training her, wasn’t she? You have to convince Mihra to forget all of that. It’s been years since the Rebellion - an elf who can fight in this Age is just going to get themselves in trouble.”

“I - that’s all Mihra’s going to have, to remember her mother by,” Cyrion choked out, sounding like he was on the verge of tears, and Mihra bit back the noise she was about to make, stumbled away from the wall and back out the front door.

Her mother was going to come back. Adaia had told her dozens of stories from the war - her mother wasn’t going to die in some evil _shem_ ’s dungeon, not after she survived that.

 _She’s going to come home_ , Mihra thought, gritting her teeth, and ran from the house back over to the _vhenadahl_ where Shianni was waiting.

“How long does it take to find your hat?” Her cousin said, bemused. She was bundled up in her own winter best, which was three sweaters, all too big, layered on top of each other, and a ragged pair of mittens with holes at the thumb. Her nose was almost as red as her hair, and her lips were chapped to the point of bleeding.

“Sorry, the _hahren_ and Alarith were visiting Papa.”

“Did they say anything about Aunty?” Shianni asked, looking concerned. Soris and Shianni were as worried about Adaia as she was. Since their parents died in the Alienage fires, Cyrion and Adaia had done their best to look after the two alongside Mihra.

Mihra kicked the frozen dirt at the foot of the tree. “Yeah,” she grumbled, watching dried acorns and pebbles roll merrily across the ground. “They’re all being dumb though. Mama’s going to come home soon, I know it.”

Shianni looked like she wanted to say something, but Mihra gave her a desperate glance, and her cousin nodded slowly.

“Right. And when she’s back, she’s going to laugh at you for moping and being so worried, so let’s go find Soris and play, okay?” She held out her hand, and Mihra took it gratefully, following Shianni away.

 

* * *

 

“She’s gone.”

Her father’s voice was completely flat. Mihra looked up from the worn copy of the Chant she’d been poring over, practicing her reading.

“What?”

“Your mother. She’s gone.” He slammed the door shut behind him and furiously stomped the snow off his shoes before kicking them off. Mihra watched them hit the wall opposite and then slump down to the floor, feeling frozen all the while. It was as if someone had stuck her to the seat with glue.

“She - she can’t be. What do you mean Papa, she’s - she’s - “

Cyrion threw himself down on the only other chair in the room and buried his face in his hands. “Someone must have gotten suspicious when Sister Boann started asking around. I went down to see your mother and as we were talking, guards showed up. They - they dragged Adaia away and she was - Maker, she was -“ His voice broke. Mihra could only stare at him, her mouth open in horror.

“We have to tell someone! They can’t just _do_ that!”

“They _can,_ Mihra! I know Adaia was teaching you, even though I _told_ her not to, told her not to put those ideas into your head.” Cyrion was shaking. “She and the other Night Elves fought for Ferelden, and what did they get for it? Nothing. None of the _shem_ care about us, Mihra. It doesn’t matter if we starve or get beaten or k- _killed_ , we’re not people to them. There’s nobody to tell.”

Suddenly, he rose to his feet and started walking to her room. “Where are you going?” Mihra said, alarmed. “Papa! What are you-“

Cyrion lifted the hay pallet that was her mattress to reveal the small twin daggers beneath, and took them.

“Papa!"

“You’re not to think about these ever again,” he told her. His voice was still so cold. Mihra balled up her fists, standing in the doorway.

“You can’t just _take_ them, Mama gave them to me - “

“And she’s not here anymore!” he yelled back. “She’s not here anymore and fighting didn’t get her anything but trouble. You keep your head down, Mihra. Be quiet, let them ignore you, it’s better than -“

“You think I don’t _know_ what that man wanted from Mama, why she fought back? She’s kept her head down plenty, let the _shem_ spit on us in the market and the dockworkers say whatever they want. She wouldn’t have hit him if it wasn’t - _that’s not better -_ “

Cyrion tucked the blades into the back of his belt and reached out to hold her head, framing her face in his hands. “I am saying this because I want you to stay _alive_ , Mihra. Anything is better than being dead.” She stared back at him. His brown eyes were flecked with green, the same as hers. They had the same nose, and the same chin. But she knew now that they _weren’t_ the same, that they would never agree on this. She could never accept the things that her father was asking her to, in exchange for her life. That wasn’t _living_.

Mihra swallowed back the rage that swelled up inside her and forced herself to nod slowly, gritting her teeth.

He looked relieved, tucked the loose strands of her hair behind her ear, and whispered, “Good girl. Thank you.” He patted her on the head, and then straightened up. “I’m not welcome at the Arl’s estate anymore, so tomorrow I’m going to have to look for new work. Money will be tight around here for awhile, I’m afraid.”

“It’s okay. My birthday’s next month, remember? I can start working then, I’ll help,” Mihra said quietly. She knew that without both her parents’ pay, especially her father’s well padded one for working in the Arl’s kitchens, they’d have less to eat, no new clothes. She didn’t mind that so much. She could always shove scrap rags into the toes of Soris’s old boots and make do. “Shianni said the Gnawed Noble is always looking for kitchen workers, maybe you could try there?”

“I’ll go in the morning,” Cyrion nodded, looked determined. “Get some rest then, darling. And remember what I said. Please Mihra, be good.”

She lowered her eyes in mock-obedience so that he wouldn’t see the fury still lingering in her gaze. He might be willing to kneel before the _shem_ , live quietly and fearfully, but she was not. What was the point of being _good?_ What had being _good,_ making themselves small, ever done for the elves of the Alienage? Maybe fighting _had_ gotten her mother into trouble, but Mihra still thought it was better than not being able to do anything at all.

 

* * *

 

Every night after that, Mihra rolled out of her cot, slipped on her shoes, and soundlessly crept past the door of her parent’s - her father’s room to go outside.

She practiced in the shadows, stretching her limbs and then swaying through the different forms her mother had taught her, holding sticks like she had as a child before Adaia had thought her old enough for true steel. As her body settled into the rhythm of imagined combat, sweat dripping down the line of her back, Mihra thought about the days when she had done this alongside her mother. Adaia had promised to give her _Fang_ some day, the dagger that she had been given by one of her Dalish friends during the war. “ _It’s called the Fang of Fen’Harel, one of their gods. They call his name to strike down their enemies.”_

Mihra didn’t know where it was now - her father probably had it, like he had Mihra’s own daggers. He would never throw away real weapons, which had too much value, but he couldn’t risk trying to sell them either, not without being questioned over why an elf had blades at all. So they were hidden somewhere, probably still in the Alienage…

 _“_ I thought Uncle told you to stop.” Mihra jumped at the voice, whirling around only to see Soris standing by the corner.

“Are you gonna tell him?” She shot back, her grip around the sticks going white-knuckled.

“No, ‘cause it would just make him sad,” Soris answered, crossing his arms. “He had good reason. I know you probably feel close to Aunty, keeping up with her lessons, but _she_ wouldn’t want you to get into trouble either. Your parents kept you home for your own safety, me and Shianni got work out in the city way before we turned thirteen. It’s an old rule, nobody _really_ checks.”

Mihra sighed. “I know. I know I was lucky to have both my parents earning good coin, so they could afford to let me wait. But I’m going to start next month, and Mama would want me to be able to defend myself, you can’t say she wouldn’t!” She held up the sticks in her hands wryly. “It’s not like I’m doing much with these anyway, Papa took my daggers and I don’t know where they are.”

Soris gave her an exasperated look, scrubbed his forehead, and then walked over to take one of the sticks she was holding. “Fine.”

“…Fine?”

“Well, you already don’t have real weapons anymore. I _guess_ I could help you practice, sometimes. Just don’t drag Shianni into this.”

“I won’t!” Mihra promised, eyes shining. “Thank you, Soris. Really.”

He shrugged, rolled his shoulders, and moved his feet into the approximate position that Aunt Adaia had shown him, back when his parents were still alive. That had been years ago, but sparring with an actual person, no matter how rusty they were, had to be better than Mihra swinging at empty air.

“You’re welcome, cousin,” he said, and then lunged.

 

* * *

 

Months later, a red haired woman came by the Alienage, and was standing near the entrance, looking unsure of herself.

Mihra had just returned from the docks, where a Rivaini ship captain had taken one look at her, laughed, and said, “If you can unload all the crates marked red with those scrawny arms, I’ll pay you three sovereigns." Mihra had done it, much to the captain’s bemusement, and walked away from a day’s work with more pay than she usually saw in a week. It had put her in a good mood, pleasant enough that she actually stopped to ask the _shem_ woman if she needed something.

“I’m looking for Cyrion Tabris,” the woman said hesitantly, her voice accented - something foreign, and upper class. Not quite like a noble, but the affected sort of tone that a high-tiered servant might use. Upon closer look, she was young - younger than Mihra had thought from a distance, but she had bruises blooming yellow and purple across her cheek and arms. Both her legs and one of her hands was wrapped in thick, heavy bandages. She stood with a limp.

“That’s my father,” Mihra said. “What’s your business with him?”

The woman looked surprised, and then peered closer. “Oh, you _do_ look like her. I’m - well, my name’s not important, but…I met your mother, Adaia. She told me about you and your father, we…we told each other names, so if one of us got out, they could tell the other’s family.”

Mihra blinked, and found tears coming to her eyes. “When did she - when did you last see her?” Her voice trembled. She hated that tremor. She didn’t want this woman to see her cry, she didn’t want _anyone_ coming through the Alienage to see her cry. She had saved all her tears until now for when she was in her own bed, alone at night.

“Just yesterday,” the woman said. “I tried to save her - I promise, I did, but she had been in those dungeons for far longer than me, she…she passed as we were making our escape.” She reached for her pocket, wincing as the movement pulled at her bandages, and withdrew a battered ring, so dirty that Mihra hardly recognized it for a moment.

It was her mother’s wedding ring.

“I’m sorry I could not bring her back to you,” the woman whispered. “The least I could do was…was come tell you what happened, myself, and give you this.”

The tears spilled over. “Yesterday?” Mihra gasped out, covering her mouth with her hand. “ _Yesterday?”_ Her voice grew higher pitched.

Yesterday. Her mother had still been alive, all these months that Cyrion and - and Mihra herself had written her off as dead and gone. _She had almost made it out._

Somehow, Mihra found her hand reaching out to take the ring from the stranger’s palm. It had always looked beautiful on her mother’s long, thin fingers, pinkish-copper and carefully engraved. Now the vines carved into it were caked with dried blood.

“Thank you,” she said, feeling hollow. It didn’t sound like her own voice - like someone else was speaking for her, saying what had to be said. “My father will want to speak with you, and thank you himself. You should stay for dinner.”

The woman shook her head. “I wish I could, but I have word that…a certain person I’m after, and Commander Raleigh, have both gone up to Amaranthine to hole up in some abandoned chantry. If I don’t leave now, they’ll be gone over the Waking Sea.”

“You’re - you’re going to chase after him? Like _that_?” Mihra burst out, eying the woman’s wounds. “I mean no offense, but you’re awfully injured, there’s no way you should be traveling north in that state.”

“I have to. Raleigh tortured and killed one of my friends, and the woman he’s with set us up to be captured in the first place. I owe it to everyone who didn’t make it out of there to rid Thedas of them both.” The woman looked grimly determined. “I won’t be alone, there are others going with me. But I must go now. I’m sorry…I’m sorry I couldn’t do more.”

Hesitantly, she reached out to shake Mihra’s empty hand, and then began walking away. Mihra watched her leave - this _shem_ , who came to an Alienage after being tortured just to tell the family of an elven woman what had happened to her in those dark cells.

She was grateful. She was.

But more than that, she was angry. She was _furious_ , with herself, with her father, with _everyone_ \- they had all insisted there was nothing to be done, accepted Adaia’s death, told one another to move on. Mihra knew her mother’s fate was becoming the next warning tale for Alienage children, _Don’t fight back, don’t go looking for trouble, or you’ll end up like Adaia Tabris_.

And all this time, she had still been alive.

Mihra had spent yesterday helping Shianni and Soris thatch their roof, then gone home to make stew before her father came back. They had sat at the table and eaten in silence, as they did most nights now, neither of them looking at the empty stool on one side.

And her mother had still been alive, as they ate their dinner and tried to pretend everything was fine.

What did it matter, all the talk about elves staying to their own kind, and valuing family? Nobody had done a thing when it mattered. Nobody had tried to save Adaia, except for this strange woman who met her only days before her death.

Mihra clutched the ring in her hand tight and pressed her lips to the closed fist, licking the salt of her tears from the corner of her mouth.

She would never, ever do _nothing_ again.

 

* * *

 

She heard later, from Alarith, who heard from his merchant connections up in Amaranthine, that Commander Raleigh had been found dead in a bandit den alongside a half dozen others. Nobody knew who had done it, or why he had been killed so far from his post.

Mihra smiled - was still smiling, in fact, at dinner with her father that night. “You look happy,” he said. “I’m glad.”

“I heard some good news today,” she murmured, and found that the plain, meatless stew tasted unusually delicious. She looked to her left, where her mother’s chair still stood empty, and raised her bowl towards it.

 

* * *

 

 

In the years to come, Mihra thought about that woman who had returned her mother’s ring and tried to remember that even amongst the _shem_ , there were good people.

It was hard to remember when her stomach burned with hunger and hatred for the guard that kicked mud onto a small child begging for food for no other reason than to laugh when the boy cried. Mihra gritted her teeth and waited until the guard walked around the corner to hand over an apple.

“Take it, little one,” she assured him with a weak smile. “I’ve already eaten, this is extra.” The lie slipped easily past her lips. The child scrubbed his face with his grimy hand, trying to hide his tears, but only succeeded in smearing dirt across his face. His cheeks were sallow where they should have been rosy and rounded with baby fat.  

“Thank you,” he said, looking up at her shyly, before dashing off to share bites of it with the other orphans. She was used to seeing them around the Vhenadahl. The Alienage tried their best to take care of the young as a community, but - it was already so hard to care for their own families.

She could work all day doing chores for a _shem_ woman too busy with entertaining to manage the household and earn only a few silver - if the lady of the house felt kind. Then, upon taking the coins to the market, she would receive a mostly-empty sack with a few fruits, nearly rotten or full of worms. Food that the humans would not even throw to feed the stray dogs that wandered Denerim, but would happily sell to an elf.

If they would sell to her at all. Or they might try to charge her three times the price she heard the merchant give a human only minutes before. Or the worst -

One day, she arrived at the market late, close to sundown. Most of the stalls were already closing for the day. Mihra rushed to the closest one that looked like it might still have something to sell - the baker’s tent. “Please, anything you have left - anything at all,” she begged, spilling the coins from her hand across the table. The baker’s wife sneered at her, and moved to shove the money back, but the baker placed his large hand on the woman’s wrist instead. He reached back and pulled out a plain loaf of bread. It looked…fine. Maybe it was a few days stale, that none of the _shem_ would buy it, but it would be the first thing Mihra had eaten in two days. Saliva collected on her tongue.

“Take it,” he grunted, throwing the loaf at her. Mihra caught it with shaking hands. “And get out of my sight.”

“Thank you Ser - thank you,” she breathed, clutching it to her chest and leaving quickly.

 _Maybe he was one of the good ones_ , she thought.

As soon as she was hidden away in an alley, she crouched down against a wall and tore into the loaf, chewing furiously, scarcely waiting before swallowing. She knew she should eat slower, make it last - that eating so quickly would make her sick, but she was _so hungry_ -

All of a sudden, she _felt_ (more than heard) a ‘ _CRACK’_ and something hard and rough against her teeth. Immediately, she spit it out into her palm, wincing at the throb of pain that streaked across her jaw. What - ?

A rock. Not a big one, not big enough to make the bread unusually heavy. She told herself it must have been an accident, somehow - ripped the remaining bread apart with her hands, and choked back a cry of fury as she unearthed three stones in total. Just pebbles. But rocks did not find their way into a single loaf of bread, mysteriously unsold at the end of the day, by _accident._

Warily, she poked at her teeth with her tongue until she felt the one that had been chipped and cringed. She’d just have to chew on the other side for awhile then.

She carried the shredded remains of her purchase back to the Alienage along with the pebbles. Mihra still felt the aching pull of her stomach, but she also knew she could not bear to eat the rest. She carried it to the _hahren_ ’s home, and warned him about the baker’s stall. Valendrian only looked regretful, and told her this wasn’t the first time it had happened.

...Her father wouldn’t do anything. The _hahren_ wouldn’t do anything.

 _Old men,_ Mihra thought, _who are tired and too afraid._  

Well. If they wouldn’t do anything, she would.

She went back to watch the stall the next day. The baker had a basket in the back, hidden behind a low-hanging tablecloth, where he stashed a few loaves in the morning before displaying the rest of his stock. She was sure, thinking back, that the loaf he had given her came from that basket.

_One of the children could have gotten it instead of me._

 

* * *

 

Mihra hated to ask Shianni - not because her cousin would refuse. Shianni felt the same low-burn of hatred, and fear, and spiteful disgust _because_ of the fear, towards _shem_. She hated to ask her because she knew there was a chance they’d get caught, and Shianni was brave but not trained to handle...well. Whatever might happen to them, two elven girls caught committing a crime.

Still. Soris would never agree. Since his parent’s deaths in the Alienage arson, he tended towards caution and kept his head down, just like her own father had since her mother died. Only Shianni and Mihra seemed to have inherited a wild, streaking desire for revenge.

“Of _course_ I’m coming with you, cousin.” Shianni rolled her eyes, just as she’d known the other girl would. “Just tell me what to do.”

 

* * *

 

For the rest of the week, in the few hours that they could spare from working, they took turns observing the stall until Mihra was confident that they knew the baker’s schedule. She waited until sunset on the last day, when the baker went home to eat dinner and his wife came out to watch the stall instead. She knew Shianni was on the other side of the house, watching the windows. He always lit the candle in the windowsill when he came home.

In the distance, Mihra heard a thunderous crash and then a man roaring in anger. Startled, his wife lifted her skirts to run back to their house.

Another crash rung out, and then then one more, followed by a high-pitched shriek. Mihra looked up herself, bewildered. _That_ was not part of the plan. The neighboring merchants and few customers remaining in the market all rushed towards the noise, looking alarmed.

She hoped Shianni was okay - Mihra glanced back and forth between the direction of the noise and then the stall. This was the best chance she’d get; Shianni would yell at her if she missed it. Cursing softly, Mihra ducked out of the alley she’d been crouching in and dove behind the table of the baker’s stall. As quickly as she could, she shoved the remaining stock of bread into her bag. She then grabbed the basket in the back and shifted some of the loaves from there to the display to cover the empty space. A few pieces short, but the wife wouldn’t notice - she hoped.

The murmuring noise of the crowd grew closer and Mihra tossed her bag over her shoulder and crept back towards the alley, walking around the market entirely and then entering from the dockside. After a moment’s pause, she took off the ragged sweater she’d been wearing and shoved it into the bag at the very top, so the unraveling ends of the sleeves still hung out. An elf carrying a large, stuffed bag was suspicious, but a girl hauling laundry wouldn’t be noticed at all.

From a distance, she could see Liselle, the flower merchant who always set up across from the baker, was packing his stall up for him. Apparently he and his wife weren’t planning to come back out tonight. Even better. _She_ definitely wouldn’t notice the difference, and tomorrow nobody would guess what Mihra and Shianni had done.

Shianni - where _was_ she?

As if Mihra had said it aloud, she heard a soft “Here, Mihra,” from behind. She whirled around to see her redheaded cousin come up and gently nudge her sideways. “It worked out?” Shianni whispered.

“Yes. Under the sweater,” Mihra replied, hefting the bag on her shoulder up as if it was slipping down. “What happened to _you_? I heard an awful lot of noise - there was a woman screaming and I hoped it wasn’t you, but -”

Shianni made a disgusted face. “I do _not_ sound like that _,”_ she scowled, and then made a gesture of brushing her skirts. “Well, I realized if I only threw it at _his_ house, everyone would know he was the target. So I threw a rock at random which didn’t break anything but a fence post and then the third try broke - uh,” Shianni paused, a hint of frantic giggle creeping into her voice, “the bedroom window of _Lady Habren_ herself.” She looked a little appalled with herself but Mihra simply gave her a sly grin.

“Good thinking, cousin,” she praised, slipping her arm around Shianni’s to lock elbows. “Nobody’s going to be thinking about a baker when an _Arl’s_ house was struck.”

 

* * *

 

“Did you hear? Someone tried to break into Arl Bryland’s house!”

“I heard they were after Lady Habren!”

“Well, you won’t see _me_ shedding any tears for that girl.”

“You mind your mouth, she might be our Arlessa some day!”

 

* * *

 

“I didn’t hear what they stole, have you?”

“They didn’t take nothing, it was _obviously_ a plot targeting Lady Habren. It was her _bedroom window_ that they broke through, not just any old part of the house.”

“Why would anyone attack _her_ ? The arl’s _son_ is heir to South Reach.”

“They say that she might marry Vaughan, that would make her Arlessa by marriage. Maybe someone doesn’t want that, or some other noble wants _their_ daughter to be Arlessa.”

“That is _ridiculous_! This isn’t one of those pulpy romances from Tethras, not everything is noble plots and assassins.”

 

* * *

 

“I heard it was the Couslands!”

“The Couslands are in _Highever_ , what in Andraste’s name are you talking about?”

“Obviously they _hired_ someone, they wouldn’t do it themselves, but their daughter hasn’t got many choices, does she? If she doesn’t marry Vaughan, there’s nobody left but old men or she’ll be marrying below her station.”

“The _Couslands_ would _not_ hire assassins! And especially not against Arl Bryland, he and Teyrn Cousland fought together during the Orlesian occupation!”

“Well, I just don’t know about that. When was the last time you saw any of the Couslands in Denerim? Even when there’s a Landsmeet, the Teyrn comes by himself, his wife and children haven’t visited with him in years. Maybe he’s gone strange.”

“Bryce Cousland is a great, honourable man, I cannot believe -”

 

* * *

 

“ _I_ heard that the Cousland girl is dead and the Teyrn’s been trying to keep it secret _-”_

“ _Why is everyone talking about Elissa!_ ” Habren screeched. “ _I’m_ the one who got attacked! _Me!_ She’s not even _here!_ Nobody’s asked _me_ if I’m alright!”

The dress-maker, who had been gossiping with the seamstress, went wide-eyed and quiet as the noble girl flung her purse across the table and stomped her foot. All the surrounding stalls in the Market District slowly stilled to a halt as everyone turned to look at her.

Realizing she had everyone’s attention ( _finally_ ), Habren sniffed and raised her chin. “I am still recovering from the _vicious_ attack on our home, but King Cailain has the royal guards out looking for the ones who did it and they _will_ be found _,”_ she snarled, turning her accusatory gaze around the crowd. “And when they are, I will make _sure_ they are punished.”

There was a moment of silence, and then someone in the crowd raised their hand hesitantly. “But, Lady Habren, _is_ Lady Elissa - “

Habren let out an incoherent shriek of rage and the crowd shrank away from her.

At the very back, Mihra tried to muffle her laughter as she gently elbowed Shianni in the ribs. “Cousin, your brilliant idea may spark civil war at this rate.”

Shianni had her face buried in her hands. “What is _wrong_ with them,” she groaned, half-laughing. “I mean, I knew people would focus on Arl Bryland’s house being attacked, but this is -”

“People love to gossip, and the story gets more ridiculous the more people talk,” Mihra shrugged, her eyes dancing. “Anyway, it worked, if not how we intended. The Crown is going to be looking for bandits or assassins or disgruntled nobles.” _Not us_ , the words went unspoken. _Not elves._

Across the market, a tall, heavyset man was stomping his way over the baker’s stall, looking furious. The baker was watching his approach with bewilderment. When Mihra spotted him, she lit up and tugged at the hem of Shianni’s shirt to get her cousin’s attention. “Watch,” she hissed.

“You sold my wife bread with _rocks_ in it! _”_ the man shouted, slamming his hands down on the table so hard that it shook and a few loaves fell down. “My son _broke his tooth_. What kind of garbage are you selling here?”

“Ser, there must be some mistake, I’ve sold here at the Market District for years, my baked goods are always of the highest quality,” the baker said weakly, holding his hands up in front of him. His eyes darted frantically to the side, as if trying to see his basket. He was still wearing a bandage on his cheek, Mihra noted, where a shard of glass from the window Shianni broke had cut him.

“A mistake,” the man echoed sourly. “A _mistake_.” He leaned down to grab one of the loaves from the ground and began tearing it apart in his hands until a copper-sized stone revealed itself in the center. He thrust his evidence towards the crowd, which had turned their attention towards him. “Look at this! A mistake, he says!”

The crowd began to mutter and trade glances amongst themselves. The baker turned pale.

“...We hurt a child,” Shianni said quietly, sounding horrified. “A _child_ , Mihra.”

“A _shem_ child,” Mihra replied. Her voice sounded colder, surer than she actually felt. “He will get the best care the Chantry can offer him, his father can come and demand revenge. An elven child would get nothing.” She thought of the orphans huddled at the foot of the Vhenadahl, the ones she had given her leftovers to when she could, and felt her heart harden.  _I did it for them_ , she thought.  _It could have been them. It could have happened to one of our children._

“ _Mihra_!”

“ _We_ didn’t hurt the boy. That baker just finally hurt someone that matters to the rest of them.” She gestured to the townspeople all pressing towards the baker’s stall, shouting and looking furious. The man would be out of business by the end of the week. He was already glancing between the crowd and his stores, trying to figure out how he had mixed his stock, handed over the wrong goods. There was frantic panic in his eyes and part of Mihra relished it.

“We should at least visit the Chantry,” said Shianni. “See if he’s going to be alright.”

“You’re wasting your pity on a _shem_ child who will grow up to call us knife ears like the rest of them, if he doesn’t already,” Mihra snarled. Shianni looked startled, and then gritted her teeth and began dragging Mihra back towards the alleys by the arm. Once they were alone, Shianni turned to face her.

“Mihra, I agreed that we should do something about the baker, that’s why I came along with you. And I don’t feel bad over what we did to _him_ one bit, but you’re angry at a child you’ve never even met, that’s never done anything to us! This isn’t…” she trailed off, and then swallowed hard, looking determined. Shianni raised her chin and looked Mihra in the eye. “You’re starting to hate them the way they hate _us_.”

Mihra looked down to the side, struggling to word her thoughts - _why not? Why do you care? They_ **_deserve_ ** _it_ \- and then decided that it didn’t matter enough. She didn’t want to argue with Shianni.

“We could go ask Mother Boann,” Mihra offered begrudgingly. “She’d probably know.”

Shianni accepted it as the apology it was.

Mihra thought this wouldn't be the last time she'd have to pretend, for Shianni's sake, that she felt remorse when she felt none.


End file.
